


Sleep Softly, Gentle Defender

by NothingxRemains



Series: Anything But Gently Down The Stream [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Caring Peter Hale, Depression, F/M, Flashbacks, Focuses on Allison a lot, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, In some..strangely convoluted way, Misplaced Guilt, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Stiles, Post-Episode: s03e23 Insatiable, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, RIP Allison Argent, Stiles-centric, flower symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingxRemains/pseuds/NothingxRemains
Summary: “Really, Stiles? Is that what you want? To make them lose another friend? To take another man’s child away?”He twitches at the accusation. Pictures his father’s face, the way it looked on the day his mom died. The day of her funeral. Every night he tried to drown himself in a bottle of alcohol.It twists something dark and ugly in his chest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The main title, chapter title, and series name are all based off of "Former Vandal - War." ([Pt. 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gn23sF_KSgk), [Pt. 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8EKe6cxU5k)). I highly recommend listening to them while reading.  
> I know this happened a while ago but I felt like revisiting it, the whole thing with Allison and the Nogitsune.
> 
> I watched the very last episode of Teen Wolf. They're all going away to college like everything is fine and dandy and they don't have loads of psychological trauma that will require therapy for the rest of their lives. And I was like, nope, I like to break my toys so I can learn how to fix them. So here's the beginning of a whole new series where I do just that.

He’s not entirely sure where he is. He thinks maybe he’s home. All the lights are on and the heat is cranked up as high as it will go, but it’s not enough. He’s too cold, unaware of the music crooning softly from his phone beside him. All he can hear is Lydia’s voice, screaming Allison’s name as Scott cradles her gently.

Half the time he wonders who he mourns for more; if it was the girl he killed, or if he was too busy mourning himself, more concerned by the fact that he’s a murderer than because Allison is gone. If he’s upset because she’s dead or because killing her meant Scott and Lydia and Chris would never look at him the same, if his dad would. Not that it mattered, he couldn’t look any of them in the eye, not without remembering her delicate smile, or her hushed whispers that bellied the heartbreak on Scott’s face. Wonders if he’s using her as excuse to hide from everything else he remembers of the Nogitsune.

He feels something on his shoulder, but he can’t pull away from the expression on Allison’s face as the Oni’s sword sinks into her stomach, the way it stays there as she falls. He thinks about apologizing to Chris Argent, even though he feels like it would be more of an insult than anything else. Like an apology’s good enough. Like words would do anything to ease his grief, or bring his daughter back. They all watched as his family was slaughtered one by one, his sister and then his wife, maybe even his father, and then the last of his family, his child. 

A rain of hot water brings Stiles backs to himself, drags him through the mud of his thoughts. Awareness returns to him in increments, and it seems like it takes the energy needed to level a house to move remove his eyes from their fixated point on the wall. Taking in the blindingly bright light and scalding water pouring down on him, until they land on… Peter. 

It’s so unexpected he sits there blinking stupidly for a few moments longer than is strictly necessary. The man in question just rolls his eyes and waits for Stiles to finish coming to grips with reality. 

Stiles notices the rest of his surroundings after a minute. He’s in his bathroom, stripped to his boxers and sitting in the tub. While Peter crouches on the other side of the tub and stares at him. He’s still cold

It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit to pretend like the haze of anguish isn’t just hovering at the edges, waiting to suck him back in.

“What are you doing here? Why am I naked? Did you take my clothes off? What the fuck dude?” He spits out, curling his arms around himself and drawing his knees up. Surprisingly, Peter does not react to this. 

“It’s been a week since Allison’s death, Stiles. You’re in the same clothes, you look like shit and you smell even worse. I’ve been informed you haven’t ate or slept, or left your room even once. I’m honestly surprised you haven’t died of dehydration.” 

Stiles continues to stare at him. After a second, he repeats, “Peter, what the fuck are you doing here?”

He sees a vein in the man’s neck bulge threateningly. “I am  _ here  _ because you’re acting like a melodramatic teenager. Someone needed to drag your ass out of that bed and all your friends are too concerned about giving you space they don’t realize you’re wasting away.”

A fizzle of anger surfaces, but it takes too much energy to maintain longer than a moment. He sighs, letting the bravado drop. The crushing feeling sinks down on him again, and his voice quiets, gains a bitter edge to it. He looks away from Peter to stare at the other side of the tub.

“What does it matter? It’s not like they’re not relieved they don’t have to look Allison’s murderer in the face.”

“Really, Stiles? Is that what you want? To make them lose another friend? To take another man’s child away?”

He twitches at the accusation. Pictures his father’s face, the way it looked on the day his mom died. The day of her funeral. Every night he tried to drown himself in a bottle of alcohol. 

The look on Chris Argent’s face as Allison drew her last breaths. Like someone sticking their hand into his chest and ripping his heart out would be less painful.

It twists something dark and ugly in his chest, to imagine it.

He doesn’t respond, but he knows the telling stutter in his pulse is probably enough. 

He doesn’t know why Peter cares. Why Stiles living or not would have any affect on him, what possible incentive could motivate him to drag Stiles’ scrawny ass out of his own personal hell and knock some sense into him. His thoughts are reaffirmed when Peter gives a loud angry sigh like he doesn’t want to be here and retreats. Not that Stiles knows where he’s going, because he’s returned to staring at the wall, but he assumes he’s changed his mind about helping a fucked up teenager and is leaving. Not that he blames him, but he wishes the man had never shown up at all and just left Stiles to his misery.

He’s proven wrong by a dry washcloth landing on his face. “Clean yourself,” Peter demands from somewhere above him. “I am going downstairs to make food. If you’re still sitting like that in five minutes I  _ will _ come up here and do it myself.” He listens to Peter’s footsteps fade under the sound of the shower before bothering to move.

He knows that he should. While he wouldn’t put it past Peter to make good on his threat in the skeeviest, creepiest way possible, he also knows that he’s right--however grudging he is to admit it, even in the privacy of his own thoughts.

Then he remembers that even his thoughts aren’t safe, not after… after.

He shakes himself and looks down at his arms, forces them to move. It feels like he’s moving through quicksand, or like his mind and body are trying to relearn how to connect, because its relatively new after it was regurgitated because the kitsune decided he wanted to keep his meatsuit.

_Shut up, just don’t think, don’t think_ , he tells himself, picking up the now wet washcloth.

It’s not that hard, once he starts moving around. He quickly learns that everything  _ hurts _ . His body aches everywhere and his legs shake when he tries to stand, his fingers lock up when he tries to use them and there’s a dull ache in his chest when he breathes. He stays sitting, takes shallow breaths, and moves slowly. 

By the time Peter comes back he’s managed a cursory once-over with the bar of soap, and he’s exhausted. The werewolf tests the water, turns it off when he finds it barely lukewarm, and gives a sniff.

“It’ll have to do for now,” he decides.

Stiles huffs.

Peter takes in his drooping eyelids and the sopping wet underwear he’s still wearing, and sighs again. Drops a towel on the kid and steps into the tub to crouch over his legs and tug off his boxers. Stiles doesn’t seem to be very aware of the action, only groans loudly in protest when Peter hauls him to his feet by his armpits. He leans Stiles weight against him while he wraps the towel around his waist, and then hoists him up into his arms, conscious of the teenager’s long legs as he maneuvers them from the bathroom to his bedroom.

 

Stiles doesn’t bother to track what’s happening, other than the constantly shifting gravity, and then when the pain in his muscles intensifies briefly. 

Then it’s warm. Wonderfully, impossibly warm, and melts away the cold ache in his bones in a way that has him clinging to the source in the short timespan between the tub and his bed. It tries to pull away and he clings tighter, and he mumbles something when it lets out an unhappy sound, though he’s not sure what because he’s sinking into unconsciousness.

Its not a deep sleep; snatches of  nightmares keep waking him up. Being consumed by the roots of the nemeton. Being trapped in a giant glass jar and clawing his nails bloody until he suffocates. Strangling Allison to death with his bare hands while she smiles at him. Laying in a coffin with his mother’s rotting corpse locked around him. Lydia screaming while Allison bleeds out on top of the nemeton, impaled with a sword. All of his friend’s heads bowed at her funeral service, silent as a grave while the church burns down around them. Allison Allison Allison.

Each time he wakes up with his breath caught in his lungs and his heart trying to escape his chest, calloused hands run through his hair and over his back until he’s soothed back into slumber, clinging to the warmth that doesn’t leave. He never remembers why that surprises him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're asking why Peter, it is not because I have a strange obsession with the guy.
> 
> Well, maybe a little. It'll be explained in the second chapter probably, if not I'll add it in the notes.
> 
> Let me know what you think pretty please? : D


End file.
